


Handball

by euphrasie



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst and Porn, Fingerfucking, Fisting, Light Masochism, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphrasie/pseuds/euphrasie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick had asked for this months ago. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handball

There is a tranquil moment in the few seconds afterward, where sweat has started to cool and Pete's arms have started to ache from holding himself up over Patrick. Then, Patrick looks at him, lust faded to fatigue, with his nose wrinkled and a hand slapping out at Pete's shoulder.

“Urgh, condoms were made for a purpose. Use them next time.” Pete looks down, could see trails of his own come leaking slowly between Patrick thighs and he smirks. 

“You didn't say I had to,” he says, rolling easily onto his back, and he would've if Patrick had asked, but he'd had his tongue in his mouth, and a hand down the front of his jeans, and Pete had been a little too preoccupied to root around for a rubber. “I'm clean, you're clean, and you know it feels better without.”

Patrick doesn't say anything else, either too tired to argue, or simply deciding to keep his pissiness at bay for the time being. He does, however, attempt to climb over Pete to get to the bathroom. He gets a leg over the sprawled limbs of Pete, before Pete reaches out, pulls him forward with enough momentum that Patrick flails briefly, falling palms down to the mattress, catching himself just enough so that his nose is pressed tip to tip with Pete's. 

“Where you going?” Pete already knows. Knows Patrick's going to clean himself up, shower, come back fully clothed in pajamas, fiddle with his laptop or TV until Pete grows bored of the lack of communication and finds someone else to bother. 

"To clean up, dude. Let me go." Patrick wiggles, tries to find his way out of Pete's tight grip on him. He hisses, bumping their noses when one of Pete's hands dips down the small of his back, slipping into where he's wet, dripping with lube and Pete's come. "Don't do that!" 

“Do what?” Pete asks, pushing one finger inside, hooking it to spread him open a little. Patrick hisses again, the flush that's only just started to fade coming up full force again. “C'mon dude, I can clean you up myself.”

Pete pulls his finger out, waves it between their faces, shiny and glistening with come and lube. Patrick turns his face away, more indignant than disgusted, and Pete drags the finger down Patrick's cheek. 

“You cannot be serious,” Patrick says, voice muffled as he presses their lips together. “That's pretty disgusting.”

“Not really.” He's rimmed Patrick before, had it done to himself, although always a precursor to fucking, not afterward. "Plus if you really weren't interested, you wouldn't still be on top of me. " 

Patrick appears to concede, because he forces himself to sit up. He's too used to this to blush, but once upon a time he would've flushed so red at sitting naked in Pete's lap, sore between his legs for obvious reasons. Pete almost wishes for those days back, if only to taste all the first times again.

Pete smiles at Patrick once again, stares appreciatively at how his fair hair is flattened down with sweat, at how his skin remains pink; the flush still high in his cheeks and his eyes heavy-lidded. Neither of them are hard, not so soon after fucking, but Pete's heart rate has picked back up again, and he knows Patrick's the same as he grips him solidly by the hips, tossing him face down onto the bed. 

Patrick makes an unappreciative huff as the shock of eating pillow comes before he has a chance to anticipate it, and he turns to glower over his shoulder at Pete. Pete ignores the look, and grabs the pillow he'd been relaxing on, folding it in half and shoving it beneath Patrick's hips, his wrist brushing against his cock, smirking at the twitch he gets in response. 

Patrick spreads his legs of his own accord, resting his head on his forearms as he tilts his head to face behind himself. He probably can't see much; will end up with a crick in his neck and an ache in his shoulders, but Pete's breath always catches a little when he sees him like this; that Patrick allows himself to be seen like this. 

Pete runs his hands over his hips, and there's already marks. The grip of his fingers have already left bruises; his white, white skin suggesting that Pete had been rougher than the truth allows.

Still, he drags a palm over the curve of his ass, marvels at the clash of white against tan; the difference still fascinating after all this time. He waits for Patrick to start pushing back into his touch, annoyed at the featherlight touches. 

Pete gets down onto his knees, presses open mouthed kisses to the small of Patrick's back before using his thumbs to spread him open. He looks red and swollen, like they hadn't taken much care to prepare things, to open him up to Pete's cock, but they'd been hurried, and Patrick likes it rougher. 

Pete laughs at everyone’s perception of Patrick. They all think he's this sweet little guy, who goes home to have sweet sex with sweet people, but he _likes_ choking around a hard cock, _loves_ getting fingered the same time he's getting fucked, and more often than not, he likes Pete to be the one to give him these things. Pete loves him too much to give him anything less than that, whatever his own feelings. 

He settles into it, uses his thumbs to keep Patrick spread as he flattens his tongue to the muscle. Patrick's still loose, and his tongue slips inside easily without much guidance. The taste of lube and his own come isn't all that pleasant, but it's not enough to deter him or stop Patrick from pushing back into his touch. 

Patrick starts twisting his fingers into the sheets below, his face buried in the pillow, and when Pete shifts one of his hands up underneath, he can feel Patrick start to harden again. 

“Fuck, Patrick. _Seriously_.” Pete shifts and wriggles down until his cheek is against the small of Patrick's back, pressing two of his fingers inside and coming up against little resistance. 

"Pete, what're you doing?" Patrick says, voice thick with a wave of unrestrained arousal. Pete pressed his fingers in deeper, rotating his wrist to get a third one in. 

"We could have some fun," Pete says. He's not tired; he's not got the stamina to fuck Patrick again, but he knows what Patrick likes, what he told him he's always wanted to do. He pulls his fingers out and sits up, waits for Patrick to turn around, skin flushed and mouth bitten raw by his own teeth. 

Patrick sits back, eyes questioning but mouth silent as he allows Pete to push him back into the mattress. He turns his head away when Pete leans in to kiss him. "Seriously, I'm not kissing you after that." 

"Fine." Pete rolls his eyes, pressing his lips to Patrick's jaw instead. He tries to clear his mind enough to get out what he wants to say, but it's hard when all he can see, feel, smell and taste is Patrick. "Remember when you said you always wanted to be fisted?" 

Patrick turns another shade darker and stiffens bodily, looking surprised that Pete would bring it up. He'd said it months ago and the suggestion had been in his tone at the time, but Pete hadn't been able to reconcile it with himself. He'd do things for Patrick, he's already done so many things to Patrick he wouldn't do to anyone else, but there was a line, and this suggestion had been over it. But thinking about it now, thinking about how deep inside he could get. Considering the things he's done to Patrick already, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing. 

“D'you think you could take it?" Pete fucked Patrick one time, a few months before the hiatus, with a thick dildo that made Pete wince to image using on himself, and after Patrick had come he'd pulled it out and fucked him with his cock. It'd been unsettling. The dildo had stretched Patrick wide enough that it felt like he'd been fucked by an entire soccer team before Pete, slick and wet and loose enough that there was barely any grip around his cock. Pete had come, but felt so odd, he hadn't dared do it again. Patrick never asked for it like that again, so he was sure it'd been weird for him too. “I think you can.”

“Are you sure?” Patrick asks, and it seems daft to Pete; for Patrick to be the one asking. But this is Patrick's idea of fun, _not_ Pete's. Pete likes to be fucked, but not like this, not in the ways Patrick craves. And he nods, he thinks about about doing it, and a tight tingle curls up his spine; buzzes low in his stomach.

“I know you can take it.” Pete goes to flip Patrick again, but Patrick shakes his head, lifting his hips and spreading his legs each side of Pete's hips. 

“This way, I want to see,” he tells Pete, his fingers shaking slightly by his side. 

"You done it before?” Pete runs his fingers up the insides of Patrick's thighs, eyes lifting to meet. He doesn't want to know of the others; to know their names, but he has to know if they're both going into this half-blind. 

Patrick shakes his head, eyes bright even in the dim light. The atmosphere has changed, Pete can feel Patrick's nerves, and it's a little like thirteen years ago; when he'd been young and Patrick younger, when he'd been stupid and drunk and fucked Patrick on his futon. It hadn't been the start of love or any of that shit, but the start of whatever it is that they have, something so much better and worse than everything else put together.

“You're the only one I'd ever let do this, you know. If you didn't want to, I wouldn't,” Patrick tails off as Pete reaches for the discarded lube, his eyes following Pete around the room. 

“I'm glad for that.” Pete doesn't want to start anything, mention anything that goes unsaid, but Patrick just spreads his legs wider on the bed; salacious and crude, but the view just speeds Pete's heart up even quicker.

“You do know what you're doing, right?” Patrick eyes Pete curiously, hands fanning out over Pete's chest, dipping low to his navel before curving to his hips.

Yeah, read about it on the Internet,” Pete laughs. It's true, he'd spent weeks after Patrick's confession finding porn for it, reading up on it, trying to picture the two of them doing it. 

“Have you ever...” Patrick starts to say, but catches himself. Pete knows of Patrick's feelings just as he knows of his own, that the two of them walk this silly little line of fucking and loving, both wanting more but unable to give in. 

'You're the only one I'd want to do this to,” Pete finishes, ending that comment by pressing three fingers inside, his hand slicked all the way to the wrist. Patrick lifts his hips greedily, the stretch not much for him anymore. Pete is glad that he's been here long enough to remember when three fingers was something Patrick had trouble taking. Now, he just hitches his breath when Pete starts to fuck him with the digits. 

He twists his hand again, curves his fingers, tucking his pinky and pointer just slightly and pressing in until all four knuckles press against the muscle, the first sign of pain twitching on Patrick's face. Pete reaches out and grabs another pillow, shoving it under Patrick's hips. The position is a little awkward, would be easier with Patrick on his stomach, but he asked for it like this, so Pete perseveres. 

He grabs the lube, and the bed's already sticky and gross; the hotel staff aren't going to know what's hit them, but Pete pours more, pushes it inside Patrick along with his fingers, tucking his thumb as he tries to get Patrick to take the widest part. He strokes Patrick's hip with his free hand, pets him through the pain as his thumb finally pushes past the resistance, his knuckles stretching Patrick wide wide wide until he's sucked in, wrist deep. 

He doesn't move the moment he's got his hand fully inside. Patrick breathes heavily, stomach contracting visibly and he feels Patrick clenching around his wrist. It's enough to make him feel dizzy with arousal, his own cock finally swelling. Patrick isn't particularly loud in bed, but he groans out, a sound more like pain than anything else.

“Jesus...Jesus, Pete, fuck fuck fuck,” Patrick is chanting, writhing on the sheets, one of his own hands feeling between his legs, pressing against Pete's wrist, where he's clenched tight and wet around him. “You're all the way in.”

“Patrick fuck.” Pete can't say anything else, all he feels is the slick tight heat of Patrick around his wrist. He just stares at where his entire hand has disappeared into Patrick's body. He curls his fingers slowly into a fist, locks his eyes onto Patrick's. 

He fucks his fist forward, watches Patrick groan and tighten around his hand, taking his own cock in hand and palming it. He wants to look down again, watch himself stretch Patrick as wide as his fucking hand, but there's a look in Patrick's eyes that forces him to keep his eyes locked upwards.

Patrick doesn't last long once Pete's fist fucking him, he doesn't touch himself after a few strokes, but Pete's hand presses against his prostate, and he's coming sharply across his own stomach. The tight vice around Pete's entire hand as Patrick comes makes Pete's breath come in short as he watches Patrick fall apart, his eyes finally drawing away from Pete's as he squeezes them shut at the intensity. 

Pete wraps his free hand around his own cock, only has to tug a few times before striping come over Patrick's thighs. He can't clear his head of the fog, but he does feel Patrick shifting around uncomfortably and he starts to remove his hand, the thickest part of his hand stretching Patrick wide again as his thumb pops out, his fingers sliding out easily. Pete can't help but look down, where Patrick is so loose the excessive amount of lube he used near enough gushes out, running down his shaking thighs and ass, pooling on the pillows and sheets below. 

Pete wipes his hand on the sheet, clenches and unclenches it, now free from the tight vice of Patrick's body. He removes the pillows from Patrick’s hips, so he's flat to the bed, and crawls up over him, seeing the discomfort on his face now the act is over. 

“Ow,” Patrick says, his hands coming up to Pete's shoulders and staying there. Pete shifts, leans down to kiss Patrick, who has either forgotten where Pete's mouth's been or just doesn't have anything in him to push him away. He opens his mouth under Pete's; just enough energy to try and shape his lips into vague attempts to kiss back, until Pete pulls away, brushing the hair back from Patrick's forehead. “I'm gonna be feeling that for a week. Seriously.”

“Was it the worth it?” Pete asks. And it was for him, to feel Patrick like that; to see him fall apart that way. It felt different, connected emotionally on levels he didn't really want to think about, but couldn't help himself doing. He wonders if it's the same for Patrick.

Patrick nods, his tired face serious for a few seconds before softening up. "Yeah. I'd like to do it again, I think, in like a year or so, when everything's stopped leaking out of me.”

Pete snorts. "You're such a size queen, Stump." 

“S'your idea,” Patrick says, which is a lie, but Pete doesn't argue, just rests his head in the crook of Patrick's collarbone, feels his body settle down as he curls up against him.

They'll need to shower, clean up properly, or Patrick might need more than that; maybe soak his ass in the tub, but Pete can't be bothered to ask, and Patrick doesn't fight it either.

He shifts over to the side, dragging Patrick with him, away from the lube slicked middle of the mattress. He turns on his side, spoons up behind Patrick, whose entire face scrunches up momentarily; more pain and lube issues obvious on his face, but he says nothing. And Pete is content to stay like this for a few moments at least.


End file.
